


Intentions

by Sonamae



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Embarrassment, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Other, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonamae/pseuds/Sonamae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl and Jazz have been doing this since the beginning of the war, but they've never really talked about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intentions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synodic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synodic/gifts).



> Gift for Synodic, who is having a rough.

The beginning of the war was full of strange happenstance, and ‘interpersonal relationships’ was at the top of the list.

It wasn’t really a _thing_ Prowl did very often, if ever, but it happened enough times that mech in his division heeded the warning signs up until he snapped. Prowl’s shoulders tended to stiffen more than usual leading up to his small ‘vacations.’ There would be an occasional flicker of headlights before a tongue lashing to bystanders, a slight readjustment to the roster that everyone in the division noticed moved mechs away from his office. Tactical had each sign on warning radars, silent alarms spread via the rumor mill, every single bot would know when Prowl was feeling that particular itch, and they would warn everyone and find something else to do. Once Prowl had scratched that itch of course, things would go back to normal like the well oiled machine they were.

Whereas with SpecOps it was… much easier to deal with.

“Hey guys, I’m kind of revved, anyone want to swap a shift with me so I can go bang the Tac Head?” Jazz would just throw it into conversation as if it wasn’t embarrassing. Of course for SpecOps it wasn’t, interfacing wasn’t taboo to mechs who breathed death. Shadows didn’t need shame, shadows needed to get off occasionally and not stress over who might get offended by who they shacked up with. Jazz’s mechs were delighted when he decided to go off and interface, and they cleared the hallway for him as loudly as possible if they needed to.

SpecOps also _adored_ Prowl, much to his unending surprise. Whereas every other mecha, including some in his division, thought him heartless, SpecOps thought him an utter delight to be around.

_‘So sassy.’ ‘Oh! The shade.’ ‘Someone dump that fragger on the Pole, Tac Head burned him good.’_

The rest of the Tactical division seemed uncomfortable with how… _close_ Prowl was to SpecOps, and eventually SpecOps noticed. And to say the least, SpecOps didn’t _like_ that kind of treatment, it caused surprising unrest and the first to notice wasn’t Jazz or Prowl. Oh no, it was Optimus Prime.

And he was _furious_.

… Well, as furious as Optimus Prime could get back then. How dare his trusted bots fall into the schooling grade childish behavior under his watch!

There had been finger waging. Legendary finger waging.

All while Jazz and Prowl continued to frag each other senseless in the background.

While the whole of Tactical loosened their standards, Jazz was loosening Prowl’s valve with his spike. Had the two of them known of the melodrama going on in the background, they would have ceased their trysts to set an example. The only thing was… they never caught on back then, so they continued to frag around when the tension got too much, when the itch was unable to be ignored any longer.

Jazz would take leave, SpecOps would delightfully clear the way, and Tactical would swallow their pride or request a transfer. The delighted screaming from Prowl’s office was enough to secure new blood for Tactical at a fast rate and leave a heavy and strange distaste for Prowl in many mechs mouths.

The war moved on.

And then Smokescreen showed up clueless as to how things worked in Tactical or SpecOps and Jazz was _delighted_ by him. Prowl seemed unfazed by Jazz‘s new obsession.

Everyone in Tactical that had been there from the beginning and stuck close to Prowl were horrified though. Prowl was so jealous he sometimes stalled out and started smoking in the mess hall. Broken cubes and bent edges to data pads became common place, and the only explanation was ‘Code Cherry.’ Short for ‘Code Cherry Red Faceplates the Faucet, destroying property I have to pay for the jealous little slagger.’

The last bit was generally just added on by Ironhide though.

The first time Prowl turned down for a tryst, Jazz had shrugged it off. His playmate just wasn’t in the mood, he could wait, Prowl wasn’t one to make him wait long after all.

After the second, third, and fourth time Prowl had turned him down, Jazz was starting to think he’d done something to offend his favorite playmate. His _only_ playmate. The absence of his berthmate had him pouting and slinking about the base, making Decepticon’s terrified by his aggravated vicious assaults and his division utterly distressed at how little their boss _laughed_ anymore. Smokescreen was clueless as to what was going on, but he could still tell Jazz was upset.

So he went to Prowl, because rumor had it that Prowl and Jazz had a _thing_ , so maybe he knew what was up.

And that was how Prowl found himself in the brig for the first time. One of his headlights was busted, his glossa bit through, a hole in his windshield, his bumper lopsided and hanging off with a very serious pout on his faceplates as he tried to hold it up. A single snide comment had made the jovial sweetness Smokescreen approached him with turn into a stone cold stare, and then a confused look, then the stone cold stare again.

And then Prowl had been slapped.

So Prowl had slapped him back.

And then Smokescreen had shoved him, and Prowl had thrown him out a second story window.

And when Smokescreen got back up the stairs, before Prowl was cuffed by the arriving authorities Prowl had contacted to turn himself in for his utter overreaction, Smokescreen proceeded to beat the slag out of him and drag him to the roof. He would have dropped him off had the Twins not intervened, and by intervened they simply grabbed both Praxians and separated them before they both went tumbling.

Smokescreen should have been in the medbay, but instead he sat in the cell across from Prowl huffing as First Aid fussed over him and slapped his hand when he tried to scratch at his shattered optic. Ratchet had refused to fix Prowl until he ‘had learned his lesson,’ but he’d scanned him and made sure nothing was going to really hurt him if he left him to stew in his own misery.

Sunstreaker had snorted as he left with Sideswipe.

“Stop it.” First Aid snapped as he slapped Smokescreen’s wrist again.

“I can’t help it, it itches.” He whined, trying to pout and charm the on-call medic into letting him scratch at the offending glass.

“That means you popped your optical connection when you hit ground. A good smack to the back of the helm will click it back into place.” Prowl muttered before he turned his head and spit another wad of energon onto the floor. He’d bit down _hard_ on his glossa from one particularly well aimed punch and talking drew the fluids out.

“Hey, who is the medic here?” First Aid said with a smirk. “I happen to know that a Kaonite-”

“He’s a Praxian build.” Prowl said with a sigh.

“Yeah, totally am. Were the door wings not the dead giveaway?” Smokescreen said with a smirk as he wiggled said door wings, which turned into a heavy wince.

“It says on your chart you hail from Kaon.” First Aid said as he pulled up his medical files on his HUD.

“Yeah, I do.” Smokescreen said cheerfully.

“That makes you a Kaonite.” First Aid deadpanned.

“He was sparked in Praxis, adopted into Kaon after his final upgrade.” Prowl said with a cough. “His build is still noticeable from miles away, and I do my research on all operatives who step a ped onto this base. He is of Praxian build, but still a Kaonite in spark and attitude.”

“So very true.” Smokescreen attempted to lean back in a relaxed stature, only to grunt and be pulled forward by First Aid. “Sorry, forgot my spinal strut was cracked.” He didn’t look at Prowl, and there was no blame in his voice, just soft sympathy for the medic.

“I don’t know how you forgot, it must hurt like the pit.” First Aid muttered as he went back to work. Prowl looked up and caught Smokescreen’s good optic, his wings drooping a fraction. Smokescreen’s wings flicked up in acknowledgement, then he offered a weak smile.

“Sorry I almost threw you off a roof,” Smokescreen said with a heavy sigh, “that was really unprofessional of me.”

“No, please, I am sorry I threw you out of that window.” Prowl’s door wings were perked up in earnest. “My actions were and are unforgivable, and I cannot seek enough retribution for my unbecoming behavior, as head of Tactical-”

Smokescreen cut him off with a happy laugh. “Hey, hey! Don’t beat yourself up! I heard you had one _vicious_ temper from Jazz, I just didn’t realize he was _that_ serious.” Smokescreen looked away as First Aid tapped his shoulder and instructed him to open his hood. “Just don’t get handsy in there doc.” Smokescreen muttered, eyebrow ridges waggling.

“Jazz… speaks about me when the two of you converse?” Prowl asked after a long moment of silence. His optics were glued to the floor when he said it, his processor in an uproar of confusion.

“Uh… duh? You’re all the mech talks about, it’s kind of gross sometimes but mostly sweet I think. He practically write poems in his spare time, I mean they’re mostly dirty as frag-”

“Watch how you’re flexing your engine block, my fingers are under there.”

“Sorry Aid, but yeah Jazz is so into you, that’s why I came to ask what was up with him. If anyone would know it would be you, I mean… aren’t you two a thing?” Smokescreen looked to First Aid for clarification.

First Aid was suddenly very interested in his engine block.

Smokescreen looked up at Prowl, taking in his stunned door wings, the flicker of his one intact headlight, the small puffs of steam coming from under his hood.

And then he started cackling.

“Oh my fragging Primus! You two! The both of you, oh man, oh _man_!” Smokescreen hunched over as First Aid sighed and yanked his arm out of his chest. “My struts! My struts hurt!” His laughter echoed down the hall as a soft whining noise erupted from Prowl’s own engine. First Aid looked over to see Prowl shrinking into his bench and pulling his legs up to hide his face. He grunted and shut his visor off, hand coming up to rub at his nasal ridge.

Nope, totally going to request a transfer.

For the next few orns, Smokescreen was Prowl’s personal shadow, much to his obvious agitation. Everyone gave the Tac head a wide berth as he strode down the hall, face impassive but door wings hiked up as high as possible on a simple frame like his. Smokescreen could be seen needling the Tac head whenever he wasn’t locked in his office, and people fell into an even more confused set of orns as Jazz seemed to fall into utter despair.

Which was to say he just pouted a lot more in public.

Soon enough it was making the SpecOps team stumble about in a daze on base but sharpen like knives in the field, and even Tactical was noticing the difference. _Prowl_ was noticing the difference. Prowl didn’t know how to handle the situation. Prowl transferred Bluestreak to Iacon in a desperate attempt to distract himself with the company of his sparkling.

This had the opposite affect though because Bluestreak fell head over peds in the grossest puppy crush on Jazz as soon as he saw him, only causing Smokescreen to openly screech with laughter whenever he saw the other Kaonite in the hallway before fleeing as his delight took over his face.

The only difference to Smokescreen spending time with Jazz and Bluestreak spending time with Jazz was that Prowl hadn’t raised Smokescreen. He’d raised Bluestreak, this was as close to his sparkling as he’d ever get, and here his little bolt was mooning over the mech he’d regularly interfaced with almost half a vorn ago. Bringing up the topic was impossible, and in private Prowl was left churning over ideas in his processor as he set up his core to plan out battles.

Pleasure and Work did not mix well in a war.

Prowl was revved beyond belief and too scared to ask Jazz for help.

And then it _happened_.

Bluestreak propositioned Jazz in the mess hall.

The entire gathering of mecha had gone quiet, all presently privy to Jazz’s utter infatuation with Prowl and Prowl’s inability to react like a normal mecha. Jazz sat there, mouth agape before Mirage started cackling. Ironhide punched him hard enough to knock him off the bench.

“Did I… did I offend you or-” Bluestreak looked ready to bolt, so embarrassed his wings were flaring and flapping in anxiety.

“No!” Jazz said quickly, reaching over to grab Bluestreak’s hands. “No man, you ain’t got nothing to offend me with, I’m just surprised. I figured everybody knew I was a taken mech.” Prowl pushed up from the table beside Jazz’s and stared at him with a glare. Who the frag was Jazz seeing? His engine rolled over.

“Oh,” Bluestreak’s wings drooped, as did a few bits of kibble, “who… who is it? Do I know them? I mean you don’t have to tell me I just-” Jazz hushed him by placing a finger over Bluestreak’s lips and crooking a finger to bring him closer. His words were spoken in the loudest stage whisper.

“Not a secret or anything, but I’m totally dating Prowl.” Jazz said before glancing over at the Praxian with a smile.

Right as Prowl’s engine back-fired.

“Oh dear.” Prowl began patting at his chassi as Smokescreen screeched and pulled out his fire extinguisher. Thick black smoke started rising from under Prowl’s hood as he flipped it open, and Jazz was rushing toward them both as Bluestreak shouted Prowl’s designation.

“Get the nearest medic in here now.” Jazz shouted to his table. “Prowl, are you okay? Slag you’re hot, I mean yeah you’re hot but slag, why aren’t you doing regular maintenance.” His chatter was said as he started patting down the fire between Smokescreen’s short bursts of foam. “Frag that looks nasty.”

“I hate to sound like I’m prioritizing over this emergency but we aren’t dating.” Prowl said, calmly as you please even though parts of him were, in fact, still on fire.

“Wait, you’re not?” Bluestreak asked as he grabbed the offered tablecloth and started patting at the flames licking down Prowl’s side.

“Yes we are.” Jazz said, a slight confusion in his voice. “We’re totally dating. We’ve been dating for like… forever.”

“Interfacing with one another occasionally and dating are two separate things.” Prowl said as he waved away smoke that was thankfully covering his heated blush. His engine sputtered fire again.

“Occasionally?” Jazz seemed scandalized. “Try like… once every three orns last vorn!” Jazz’s visor light narrowed. “Holy frag, are you that dense? We are totally a couple!” Jazz’s ministrations stopped as he crossed his arms.

“When have you ever taken me out on a date or verbally indicated you wanted to court me.” Prowl countered as Ratchet rushed in.

“What, I-” Jazz closed his mouth as Ratchet barked at him to move. “I don’t have to say stuff like that, we’ve been together for millennia, we’re beyond that.”

Ratchet groaned as he saw the damage and Jazz’s flippant look. “What the frag?” He muttered as he forced Prowl onto a bench.

“What do you mean what the frag? He says we aren’t dating!” Jazz shouted. Several mechs were wincing or running from the mess hall. “You can _not_ be taking his side. We’re totally a thing!”

Ratchet chose not to answer, he simply shook his head and focused a scan on Prowl’s engine.

“We are totally a thing.” Jazz looked at Prowl, hurt and lost in every line of his visor. “I mean… aren’t we?” There was a softness in his voice that made Bluestreak wince. Smokescreen looked between the two and steered the younger Praxian away as fast as he possibly could.

“Well… I mean I suppose we are a… _something_.” Prowl admitted, though he seemed more distracted by the grumbling Ratchet was doing under his hood. Jazz seemed to droop a little bit, then he dragged a chair over and sat beside Prowl, reaching out to take his hand.

“Hey, I can work with _something_.” Jazz muttered as he leaned over to rest his chin on Prowl’s shoulder.

“You are causing a scene.” Prowl said, but there was no commitment behind his voice.

“Says the mech with two blown cylinders.” Ratchet muttered as he leaned back. “Right, I need you in the medbay _now_ , before you catch on fire again. And you, I need you to… I don’t know, I don’t need you around but I’m pretty sure you’ll hover anyway.” he said with a huff.

“Well you’re not wrong.” Jazz said cheerfully as he helped Prowl to his feet.

The next few orns went by as if nothing had happened, and Prowl was back to work and just as cold as he had been before, only it was a warm kind of cold. The cold of someone who was happy but utterly work minded. Tactical let out a huge sigh of relief that their commander was _finally_ back to normal.

And then one day the hallway was being cleared by SpecOps, and Tactical lost it cheerfully as Jazz walked by with a slag eating grin on his face. They threw a party in the mess hall. Everything was finally back to normal.

Almost.

“Can you believe this?” Prowl shouted a few orns later from the end of the hall. “I did _not_ authorize this, what makes you think I would let Mirage get away with this? Is this because we are… whatever we are, is this the reason? Do you honestly think interfacing with me and taking me out on a few dates gives you special privileges now?” The hallway looked empty save the two of them, but Prowl didn’t see Optimus Prime standing in the open doorway that Jazz had just walked out of.

“What? Honey-”

“Do _not_ _Honey_ me!” Prowl swung the data pad at Jazz’s helm. He ducked. “Did you or did you not authorize this!” He threw the data pad and Optimus caught it before handing it to Jazz. Prowl caught sight of his Prime and his entire frame froze up.

Jazz was reading furiously as he ducked behind his boss. Prowl was staring at Optimus as if he’d cursed in front of Primus himself.

“Optimus Prime. Good orn to you.” Prowl’s entire frame straightened up and he gave a respectful salute.

“Commander Prowl, good orn to you as well.” There was a fondness in his voice that Jazz smirked at.

“Hey, so Prowler,” Jazz looked up and offered the data pad back, “whatever this is, I didn’t sign off on it. Do you want me to read the mech the riot act since he’s in my division, or do you want to punish him?” There was that light smirk again, but Jazz didn’t dare move out from behind Prime.

“Well, as protocol dictates he is under your division, therefore he is your responsibility to reprimand as you see fit.” Prowl looked away and his door wings fluttered furiously, his face heating. “I believe I am late for a perimeter run, I have to go.” He hurried off, shoulders tense.

There was a pause before Jazz slipped out from behind Optimus and glanced up at his commander.

“So uh… that just happened.” Jazz said with a shrug.

“Yes, it did.” Optimus simply smiled and looked down the empty corridor in the direction Prowl had stalked. “Jazz, take care of him. I… I worry sometimes. I know he’s a handful, but if anyone could handle him it’s you. You’re both dear to me as it is, but try not to get him sparked until the war is over.” And that was all he said. Jazz watched as Optimus stepped back into the room and shut the door, and he couldn’t help his smile.

The following orn Prowl showed up to Jazz’s office and _demanded_ everyone _get_ _out_. This had never happened before, and plenty of mecha were stunned into silence before Prowl’s emergency lights and his siren wailed. The office was left empty of everyone but Jazz, who looked confused as Prowl stalked around the desk and pushed Jazz’s chair back.

The wheels groaned as Prowl straddled his hips and buried his face in Jazz’s neck.

“Uhh… bad time?” Jazz let his hands wrap around Prowl’s hips tentatively when the Praxian only huffed. “Oh… okay.” Jazz just waited, but eventually waiting got boring so he picked up a data pad in one hand and rubbed Prowl’s back with the other. “Take your time.” This wasn’t an uncommon thing for Prowl to do, but it was normally a thing he did after a botched mission and subsequent overload.

Prowl had never taken such initiative before, but Jazz couldn’t say he minded.

The orn after that it happened again, only this time Prowl didn’t crawl into Jazz’s lap to cuddle. Prowl crawled into Jazz’s lap and popped open his interface panel.

“I am under the assumption most of your operatives are asleep when I strictly put them on rotation. Let’s wake them up.”

Jazz liked this. Jazz liked this _quite_ a lot.

Mirage couldn’t look at Jazz the same way for a full vorn. Sitting across the table from Smokescreen he stared at his cube.

“Do… do all Praxians scream that loudly during interface?” He asked suddenly, still staring at his cube. Smokescreen paused and smirked.

“Every single one.” He lied. “Sirens and everything.”

Mirage looked up in horror. He didn’t catch the smirk on Smokescreens face. Smokescreen didn’t correct him. Bluestreak sat down and chirped happily at Mirage.

“Hi Mirage, how are you, you’re looking a little off today, are you alright? Are you going to be okay to meet up and spar with me like we talked about?” Bluestreak watched as Mirage stumbled away from the table. “What? Was it something I said?” He asked, confusion all over his sweet face. Smokescreen leaned over and nuzzled Bluestreak’s cheek with a gentle churr, as was common among the Praxian’s these days.

“No little light, Mirage is just having a bad day. How are you though, how have you been adjusting to your Carrier taking it up with Jazz?” He waggled his eyebrow ridges and Bluestreak laughed, leaning against his fellow as his door wings lifted.

“It’s been great, actually.” And Bluestreak began to ramble on about how he felt. Smokescreen listened intently, not even noticing Jazz and Prowl enter the mess hall hand in hand in a heated conversation.

Things were okay for being in the middle of a war.


End file.
